


Thanatos

by ClementineStarling



Series: (Beyond the) Pleasure Principle [1]
Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Boot Worship, Burnplay, Dom/sub, Humiliation, M/M, Masochism, More Content Info See Notes, Painplay, Pre-Series, Rough Sex, hints of Daddy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 15:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10250816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: Obergruppenführer Smith summons Joe to his office for his first debriefing; it doesn't go exactly as everyone expected...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viceindustrious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/gifts).



> who never fails to bring out the ~~worst~~ best in me. Thanks for your support and all the helpful comments/beta.  <3
> 
> To all other readers: hi! ^^  
> Just to make sure everyone's on the same page: This fic won't be sugar coating anything about the characters. They're both Nazis, plain and simple. Not the kind you just wanna punch, more the sort you wanna hang on the next tree, at least John Smith. As the highest-ranking SS officer in Nazi America he must be pretty much on board with the regime (minor personal disagreements with inconvenient policies like the thing about Thomas don't change that) and even if 'Obergruppenführer' sounds somewhat adorable in a non-native pronunciation, ... yeah you know... It's heavily implied during the series that he's been taking part in mass murder/genocide. And Joe, well, he has proven himself to be the epitome of a Mitläufer (hanger-on). He always just floats with the tide, depending on the current company he keeps, and it turns out he has no fundamental problems with Nazism as long as it serves his interests. The show is doing a marvellous job at depicting the 'banality of evil' by painting them as ordinary men, so maybe sometimes it's a bit too easy to forget who they are and sympathise with their cause? (Also, ugh, so far they seem practically tame and humane compared to how the show represents the Japanese occupiers.)
> 
> So essentially, my only excuse for falling down this rabbit hole is how bloody brilliant the Ogrufus performance is. But then Rufus Sewell is always brilliant, so what did I expect? I should have know better than to think I could resist him. One scene with Luke, flaunting his watery-eyed deer-in-headlights-expression, was enough to convert me to the dark side. And here I am, sitting in a fucking dumpster fire of a fic with the trash-ship to end all trash-ships, still wondering how tf I got here, *dramatic sigh*... 
> 
> But then I guess, you're here because you feel the same, so what am I even going on about?
> 
>  **Further info regarding content:**  
>  Please note this fic contains Nazi ideology, holocaust references, slavery mention, eugenics references, antisemitic conspiracy theories, racism, homophobia. Also be aware that this is basically a Nazisploitation fic.

“You do know what national socialism is all about, don't you, Joe? What it is that we're trying to achieve here...”

John Smith's voice is almost soft when he says it, like a father about to explain his son some vital fact about the world, and a part of Joe wants to give in to this pretence of familiarity, make the Obergruppenführer proud by coming up with the very response he wants to hear. But somehow all those hours of national politics and racial science at school seem to have been wasted on him, their lessons evaporated. There is a black hole in his head where there should be clarity of mind. It's not a difficult question he has been asked and yet he struggles with finding the right words. 

But then what was it they taught him? A national comrade carries the truth in his very blood, the fate and future of his people. 

“Survival, Obergruppenführer?” he tries. “The survival of the race?” It's a platitude but you never know when that's exactly what you're expected to say, and it's always better than nothing. He waits for a reaction, preferably a smile, a nod, a praising word, any sign of approval, but Obergruppenführer Smith's face remains blank. 

They're sitting across from each other at the coffee table in Smith's office where Joe has been summoned to report on his first assignment. He isn't sure why the Obergrupperführer has taken such an interest in him as to debrief him personally but he knows better than to question the decision. He's still glad they let him off with a slap on the wrist and a couple of errands to run for the SS. The arrest for the bar fight wasn't his first offence, they could have easily sent him to prison instead of giving him this chance of proving his usefulness. And they still can if they're not satisfied with his efforts.

Outside the sun is shining bright but the office itself, despite being located at the top floor of the building, is only dimly lit. What little daylight manages to slip trough the blinds is immediately swallowed by the dark wood and black leather and the bare stone ornaments of the room. It is designed to invoke the gravitas of European castles, instil a sense of awe in the people summoned here. The raw, brutal concrete serves as a constant reminder that the Thousand-Year Reich has taken root in the New World, shaped it in its image without mercy and that it won't shy away from anything to defend its claim, be it terror or torture. No method will be too medieval, no means to extreme in the pursuit of their goals.

Joe has heard of the camps. Everyone has heard of the camps. Their existence has never been a secret. They were not exactly advertised either but word was getting around. People weren't deaf or blind, they saw the black population deported to the south and forced back into slavery, they saw their Jewish neighbours disappear, they heard the propaganda. But then again, everyone was busy with their own problems. And after all there were perks too: Household equipment at bargain prices, cheap furs and jewellery, empty flats, vacant houses. Not to forget new jobs. Suddenly after two decades of depression people could earn a living again. They were able to buy a house or even afford a car. 

Joe still fondly remembers a trip to Florida, the warm sand under his naked feet, the bright sky and blue sea he would never have seen had there not been Strength through Joy-vacations organised by the American Labour Front. His mother could never have paid for it out of her own pocket. It's not all bad under Hitler.

There is a price to it all though, and in moments like this, when confronted with the scrutiny of the regime Joe is only too keenly reminded of it.

Obergruppenführer Smith is still watching him. His lips are a thin, unforgiving line and the castle-gloom of his office underlines the hollowness of his features. The bones of his skull push against the skin, sharp and hungry, and his eyes are so deep-set they appear sunken. Joe can't help thinking of the Totenkopf of the SS death's head units. Death may be a master from Germany but his American apprentice is doing him proud. It's as if symbol and man are overlapping, becoming one and the same, and it makes Joe wonder what it might have been that allowed John Smith to rise through the ranks so quickly, what he might have done in the aftermath of the war when the Germans set out to Aryanise the territory. Perhaps his face was indeed the face of death to some miserable Semites, the last thing they saw before they met their end with a shot in the neck or a lungful of Zyklon B. It's not hard to imagine John Smith as an incarnation of the grim reaper, merciless and efficient in the name of Führer and Volk.

The thought makes Joe's skin crawl but at the same time it also conjures a strange, almost pleasant flutter in the pit of his stomach. Though before he has further opportunity to dwell on the utter sickness of this sensation, Obergruppenführer Smith finally breaks the silence.

“You are right, on a very fundamental level it is about survival. But to put it like that makes it sound as if we were mere animals on the verge of extinction not a cultured people.” Smith pauses and taps his fingers against the arm rest of his chair which Joe interprets as a prompt to take a second guess.

“Purity maybe?” he suggests, “To preserve the Aryan heritage, weed out weakness and degeneration, stop the corrosion from within.” 

This time his answer provokes the slightest changes in Obergruppenführer Smith's expression, an amused twitch of the mouth, the hint of a raised eyebrow, yet these changes are so minuscule and fleeting, Joe isn't even quite sure it's not just his mind playing tricks on him.

“Did I say something wrong, sir?” he asks, suddenly self-conscious.

Smith's fingers stop tapping and he's shifting in his seat, leaning forward to eye Joe even more closely. It's only a couple of inches but it seems to intensify the piercing effect of his gaze to a degree Joe finds nearly impossible to bear. Smith's strangely coloured eyes seem able to see straight through him and recognise his act for what it is, lies and pretence and make-believe. 

“I've read your file, Joe,” Obergruppenführer Smith says in a calm, measured tone with the merest hint of fatherly disappointment. “And it could not be clearer that you haven't understood a thing about the kind of society we're trying to build. The Reich is like a family. We look out for each other, help each other thrive. It is about the people's community, the Volksgemeinschaft. Together we are strong, together we will make the world a better place. But you... not only did you not contribute to the cause, you've been actively undermining our efforts to establish order. You've got a history of insubordination: mischief, violence, petty crime. You have no regard for the rules nor respect for your superiors.”

“Sir, I've—,” Joe tries to interject but Obergruppenführer Smith immediately stops him by raising his hand.

“I don't think you're a lost cause, Joe, you're not yet rotten to the core. You're corrupted, yes, led astray by the last residue of Jewish-Bolshevist propaganda. Beliefs that are still rampant in the dark, dingy corners of the Reich, ideas that despite our best efforts we have not yet managed to destroy root and branch.” 

The disgust is apparent in Obergruppenführer Smith's voice, and Joe can see it takes effort for him to control his anger, tempering his tone as he continues. It's as much accommodation as he can reasonably expect from a high ranking SS-officer.

“You see, Joe,” Smith continues with a more sympathetic demeanour, “I agree that equality of the races is a nice notion, sentimental but nice. But I ask you to consider where such sentimentalism has brought us in the past: To the very brink of ruin, and ultimately to war. You are confused, I understand, but you've got to forget the lies they fed you, the shiny fairy-tales of a liberal paradise, where the races live in harmony and everyone is allowed to pursue their selfish ends and yet everything is in good order. We've tried that and it did not work. On the contrary, good, honest men had to pay a terrible price for it. We cannot allow our people to sink so low ever again, do you understand, Joe?”

Joe nods. He never really thought of his behaviour in a larger context, as a betrayal of his destiny. He did what he believed was right. He wanted to make his own choices. Now that he sees himself through Smith's perspective, the findings are not so flattering. Maybe he was selfish in never looking past his own comfort, only ever caring about the little distractions, the pleasures, rewards, deviances. It seems awfully decadent now; and to be perceived like that, by Obergruppenführer Smith of all people, makes him blush.

John Smith looks at him as if he could read every thought on his mind and yet he seems patient, almost understanding. “You've got a lot to make up to the community, Joe. You owe your people a debt, so my question for you is this: are you willing to repay it?”

It's not a request; Joe may not be a genius but he knows when he's receiving an order. There is something about orders that never fails to touch a cord within him, evoking a warm, reassuring feeling of certainty, of purpose. He is reverberating with it like an instrument and at that moment there's not a shred of doubt in him, that it is what he's supposed to be, a tool in the SS man's hands.

“Jawohl, Obergruppenführer,” he responds. The words burst from him with the passion of a good soldier. There's a physical snap to attention, the half-suppressed urge to salute, ingrained by countless iterations. And he's lucky. The snappy German (and perhaps his enthusiasm) earns him the ghost of a smile. 

Smith appears to relax a little, leaning back in his seat. Joe can't help notice how extraordinarily fine he looks in his black SS uniform. It fits him perfectly, and the colour suits him too, bringing out the austerity of his features, the striking contrast of his dark hair and fair skin. Smith may not be blond and blue-eyed but that's about all you could possibly criticise regarding his appearance. Joe may not remember much from his classes but he's certainly not forgotten what they told him about the qualities he should aspire to – be fast as a greyhound, tough as leather, and hard as Krupp steel – and Obergruppenführer Smith is the very embodiment of these virtues. There is certainly nothing soft about him. He's got a cold, hard edge to him, like a blade or a shard of glass, and if you get too close you're going to cut yourself, Joe has no doubts about that.

That's why he is afraid. He can sense the subliminal threat, it lies like a chill on his skin and makes his stomach clench. But it's also why he can't tear his eyes away from Smith for long, no matter how often he reminds himself that he must not stare. It takes considerable effort to lower his gaze, watch his own hands instead of the Obergruppenführer's face, and even averting his eyes only worsens the effect. He can feel his eyes lingering on him as if they were actually touching, probing, searching. It's only a matter of time until he slips up and gives something away that should rather stay hidden. The danger is like an aphrodisiac, making his blood throb with desire. Underneath the icy sheen of fear his skin is growing hot and he must be blushing. No, it can't be long now until Smith realises something is wrong with him and Joe dreads the moment as much as he secretly hopes for it.

He already wondered if the SS is aware of his not so savoury trespasses and more risqué misdemeanours. Since they know everything else, it stands to reason his little secrets are no secrets in this room. But so far John Smith has not yet dropped any kind of remark or insinuation, has he?

Joe can't withstand the temptation, his eyes flick up to Smith's face but his expression is as impassive as always. If he noticed something is amiss, he doesn't let on. Joe wishes dearly he had only a fraction of that self-control.

He bites his lip. “Obergruppenführer, if I may ask–” He waits for Smith's nod of permission before he goes on. “I can't help but wonder why you... why you would give me this chance to redeem myself.”

The seconds tick away and once again Joe has ample time to doubt the prudence of his question. Every minutes he spends in Smith's office increases the chance to be exposed for the deviant he is. 

“I know your father, Joe,” Smith says finally. “I think he would want you to be useful to the Reich.”

His father? Joe opens his mouth, closes it again, promptly. He should not ask any more questions. Having a conversation with John Smith is like walking through a mine field. But then again, it's a his _father_ , that mysterious, ever-absent figure. His mother never told him anything _substantial_ about him but it was obvious she had loved him, that she had adored him and he must have broken her heart. It's an offence no son can forgive but then... some of his mother's admiration must have rubbed off on him. Whenever he imagined his father he thought of him as a war hero, handsome and brave and a little frightening. Not unlike Obergruppenführer Smith if he's entirely honest. The thought makes the colour rise to his cheeks again.

“So he is alive?” he stutters.

“Yes he is. Alive and well. That's all I can say at the moment, Joe,” Smith says, “but I will tell you about him when the time comes, I promise.”

The prospect to learn more about his father, perhaps even finally meet him would be a childhood dream come true.

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Joe says and he actually means it. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he adds. “I always wanted to know more about my father, anything really. I missed him a lot when I grew up.”

The time for nostalgia and lenience seems to be over though. John Smith has resumed the impatient drumming of his fingers against the leather of his arm rest. 

“Yes I can see that,” he says, and there is no gentle, fatherly undertone in his voice but something sharp, like barbed wire. He gets up, abruptly, and Joe follows suit, practically jumping to his feet as Smith steps away from the coffee table. 

He should take the hint that the debriefing is over, make off while he still can, but he finds himself unable to resist the bait. “How do you mean, sir?” he says instead of asking if he's dismissed, his eyes cast down as if expecting a slap to the face. He can feel Smith's disapproval as he's taking another step towards him. 

“It is obvious you grew up without a firm hand to guide you. Your mother may have loved you dearly and only wanted the best for you but she, like so many women, was too soft, too lenient. She indulged you in your whims instead of teaching you about boundaries. You lack discipline, Joe, you have no sense of self-control.”

He doesn't dare look up, Smith is right of course, but... “Sir, I–” 

“Don't interrupt me, boy,” Smith barks. “I don't want to hear your feeble excuses.”

There it is, the severity Joe has been waiting for, harsh and stern and a bit cruel. It should make him retreat not stumble a step forwards.

“You have become everything your father wanted to see eradicated, Joe, a weakling, a wannabe rebel who thinks his independence is more important than his people. Men like you have been dancing to Judah's tune for centuries, chasing money and amusement instead of caring for the welfare of their Volksgenossen. Moral decay has been eating away at our societies, carving them from the inside out for years and years until they finally collapsed. You think you're being noble when you don't act, when you don't stamp out the parasites and vermin, but you are not, you are part of the problem.”

Then John Smith does something Joe has not quite seen coming: he reaches out and grabs his jaw, forcing him to look him in the eye as he goes on. 

“But you can be better than this, you can be a noble, honourable man who will put his personal motivations aside to serve the greater good. It's not the easy way, but it's the right one.”

John Smith is staring at him as if he was looking for something specific in Joe's soul. His pale hazel eyes are even more unsettling at so short a distance. What might he see in him? The truth perhaps? Joe's heart is hammering in his chest like mad, his mind is racing. But then, just when he thinks he can't bear it anymore, as suddenly as he has grabbed him Smith lets go.

Joe isn't prepared for the sensation that follows, which is even more intolerable. It feels like losing an anchor. As if Smith cut the line that was tethering him to the ground and now he's afloat, with no firm ground under his feet, nothing to hold on to.

“What can I do to become this better man, Obergruppenführer? Would you–” He swallows. “Would you show me?”

Smith's expression is flickering. It's more of a short twitch of his facial muscles than an actual smile. Then he turns around and walks towards his desk. Joe feels every step away from him as loss and as relief in equal measure. His hair is standing on end, his skin prickling with goose bumps. 

Smith picks up a silver cigarette case from his desk, takes out a cigarette and snaps the case shut without offering it to Joe. There is nothing, almost nothing, Joe would have liked better now than a cigarette. He longs for the comforting feel between his fingers, the rough burn of smoke in his throat. Why is it he always wants most what he can't have?

Obergruppenführer Smith turns around slowly, his hand rummaging in his uniform pocket, apparently looking for a light.

“Allow me, sir,” Joe says and takes a step forward, holding up his own lighter. His fingers tremble a little when he snaps it open. 

Smith bows his head to accept the offer, the cigarette in his mouth, and Joe wills his hand to be steady when he's raising the lighter, watching tobacco and paper blacken and catch fire. He is mesmerised by the orange glow of the cigarette when Smith takes the first drag, the curl of his lips, the flare of his nostrils. The moment stretches as if frozen in time and Joe feels dizzy when he finally tears himself away and retreats a couple of paces to a more appropriate distance.

“Tell me, Joe,” Smith says after exhaling a small cloud of smoke. “Do you have a woman?”

He is leaning casually against the edge of the desk. It's an odd sight, the uniform seems to call for a much more formal pose but right now Joe feels as if, through the silvery ribbons of cigarette smoke curling between them, he can catch a glimpse of the man behind the mask. 

“There is someone,” he admits. He met Rita a couple of months ago, she's a sweet girl with a cute little boy. He likes them. But his emotions for them are merely a shadow of the want he feels at other times, those blind, dark urges eating away at him like rot and rust, eating and eating, until he feels hollow and raw and starved and has no choice but to satisfy them, and again he wonders if Smith knows. If he's aware of the full scope of his corruption.

Smith takes another thoughtful pull from his cigarette. “It's important for a man to have a home. A wife, children. They're what keep you grounded. They're what keep you sane.”

There is something in his expression, a haunted look in his eyes, a hardness in his features, that reminds Joe again of the terrible rumours he's heard about the Obergruppenführer. Perhaps it is regret, perhaps determination, he could not say.

“We do what we do for their sakes,” Smith continues. “Sometimes our duties are–” he seems to grope for the right words. “–difficult to fulfil. And yet they need to be done. There is no way around it.”

Joe's imagination oscillates between the vision of Smith in a long leather coat, his jack boots mud-splattered, a smoking gun in his hand and another mental image of a curvaceous blonde draped all over him; he's not sure which he prefers, but before he can waste any more time thinking about it, he is distracted by the fact, the Obergruppenführer seems to have forgotten about the cigarette in his hand, and it is slowly burning down. The ashen tip has become so long now that it's only a matter of time before it falls off, and there's a good chance there will be enough glow in it to burn a hole in the carpet. 

“You're familiar with the motto of the SS, Joe?” John Smith inquires while Joe keeps staring at the cigarette tip.

“Meine Ehre heißt Treue,” he responds, automatically, relieved he can answer the question for once, especially since all he can think of is the ashen tip of the cigarette, how it's getting more and more likely that gravity will take its toll. It can happen any second now. Finally the same sort of automatic response, more of an urge really than a conscious decision, propels him forward. He stretches out his arm and puts his hand between the cigarette and the carpet.

John Smith gives him a strange look before he flicks his cigarette and the ash falls on Joe's palm. There is indeed some glow in it and it stings but Joe doesn't flinch, even though his eyes water. Obergruppenführer Smith doesn't show any kind of surprise at Joe's reaction, he just goes on as if using a subordinate's hand as an ashtray was nothing out of the ordinary.

“My honour is loyalty,” he repeats. “It sounds very catchy, doesn't it? But you have to ask yourself what that implies to fully comprehend the meaning.”

Joe blinks. “I, I suppose obedience to the Führer?”

The Obergruppenführer nods. “What else?”

“Faithfulness to Volk and Reich, to my fellow national comrades.”

“And?”

“Submission to my superiors?”

“Very good.” John Smith gives him a rare, precious smile. 

Joe watches how the Obergruppenführer lifts the cigarette to his lips and inhales, then lowers it again, right over Joe's waiting hand. This time Joe is prepared for the burn. But this time there is also more glow in the ash. Perhaps it is coincidence, perhaps Smith flicked the cigarette more vigorously on purpose. It doesn't merely sting, it feels like it burns a small blackened crater into his palm, and Joe can't stifle a groan of pain.

“See, Joe, you have it in you, the ability to serve. You even appear to have a natural talent for it, you're just unformed, untrained. All you need is someone to show you the meaning of duty.” Smith's voice is barely more than a whisper. Gently he brushes the ash from Joe's hand to have a look at the damage while Joe's eyes are fixed on his face, hoping for any indication of satisfaction in Smith's expression. He is so starved for his approval, it feels like an actual physical need.

The brief, fleeting touch of Smith's fingers on his palm makes sparks erupt on his skin that almost blot out the pain and he feels a sharp tug in his guts, a tension that's got nothing to do with fear. (A tension that's got everything to do with fear.)

Joe forces himself to concentrate on his breathing; he could get away with a bit of gasping when the pain was fresh but he should have recovered by now. It's just a little burn after all. It's not as if he has any reason for his breath to come ragged and heavy. It's not as if there was anything _sexual_ about this.

Smith studies the cigarette butt in his hand, turning it between his fingers. It's almost finished and now he has to decide what to do with it. 

“Obergruppenführer,” Joe says. Even to his own ears his voice sounds broken. Desperate. He doesn't even know what he's begging for but it is unmistakably a plea.

Smith's eyes dart upwards, they're keen and pale as shards of glass. _If you get too close, you're going to cut yourself_ , he knew it would happen, knew it all along, and here he is, waiting for the blood to well to the surface and for the pain that follows. Smith's left hand closes around Joe's wrist to hold him steady while his right brings down the cigarette into the waiting palm. 

Joe's lips fall open in a silent gasp when the glow burns through his skin, his vision is blurring. Smith is mercifully quick about it, he stubs out the butt with a practised, efficient motion. Maybe it's not the first time he's put out a cigarette on a man's palm. This time it's not just Joe's stomach that gives an involuntary twitch at the mental image. 

The smell of singed skin is noticeable, even in the smoke-heavy air; Joe feels faint but Smith still hasn't loosened his grip around his wrist, and he's thankful for it. His presence is all that keeps him upright at the moment. It seems the pain is a fair price to pay for being allowed to bask in Smith's strength.

“None of us is without flaws,” Obergruppenführer Smith murmurs. “It takes discipline to overcome those weaknesses. Exercise. Training. We're not just animals, Joe. We can learn how to deal with our urges.”

Joe wonders dimly if the words are meant for him or if Smith is simply thinking aloud, reminding himself of his own principles. He still hasn't let go of Joe's wrist, his fingers are like a vice, grinding the bones in Joe's arm together and Joe is relishing it. He doesn't dare dream of another kind of touch (does he?), but he savours the pain, it's a good, clean feeling and he would gladly take more of it. God, he _wants_ Smith to hurt him, show him what he can do with his practised murderer's hands. There is catharsis in pain. Purity.

He can see that Smith wants it too; there's a hunger in his eyes, a darkness he probably reserves for occasions that call for it, but maybe he has not had any opportunity to make use of it lately. Maybe it's just that Joe makes such perfect prey; wide-eyed and open-mouthed, an Aryan poster boy with his chiselled features and dark-blond hair, ready to be devoured by the big bad wolf.

Joe has been told before how delectable he looks, and Obergruppenführer Smith is not the first SS officer he's wanted to hurt him. Despite all claims about the extermination of the corruptive influences of the SA there seem still enough Röhmians left in the ranks of the Schutzstaffel for boys like Joe to get their fill of attention. He has hoped against all hope Smith would have similar inclinations. 

But certain environments breed these sorts of predilections, or maybe men with these sorts of predilections seek out certain environments. However, even though the leaders of the Reich had tried to crack down on degenerates within the armed forces several times, somehow they were never too successful in weeding out the sadists and homosexuals in their midst. Perhaps they just got very good at hiding in plain sight, Joe thinks. Like Obergruppenführer Smith, who no one in their right mind would expect to be anything but a devout soldier and a loving father and husband. 

And who knows, maybe he is just that. Joe doesn't trust his instincts with John Smith. There are too many layers to this man, too many mixed signals to figure out whether it's safe to offer himself up. He could just reach out and touch the lapels of Smith's uniform jacket, place his clean, left hand against his chest, look at him out of wide, innocent eyes, bite his lip, open his mouth, just enough to emphasise how lush it is, how ripe for the taking. Performances like that usually do the trick. But in this case. In this case he'd rather exercise caution.

“Tell me how I can prove my loyalty, Obergruppenführer,” he says. He doesn't have to make an effort, his voice already sounds pretty much exactly like he wants it to. Brittle. Raspy. And there's still the cigarette butt in his hand, already proof of his willingness to serve and sacrifice. 

“You will serve the cause,” Smith says. The skin is stretching tight over the sharp angles of his face, Joe can see the muscles in his jaw flexing.

“Yes, I will, sir.” He casts his eyes down as if shy to admit what he says next: “It's just... it's so much easier for me to grasp the concept loyalty when its loyalty to a person. I mean we all revere the Führer and--” He looks up again, careful to put as much worship in his expression as possible. He doesn't have to pretend plucking up all his courage though, his heart is racing. “And you are his deputy in America, so...”

“I'm not the Führer's deputy,” Smith says, he sounds exasperated but not angry, which is a relief. Insinuations like that could be seen as treason.

“Yes, of course not, I just meant...” Now the moment has come for him to bite his lip, Joe decides, no risk, no reward. He must clarify _somehow_ what he's getting at.

A quick glance at Smith's face tells him that maybe he's gone too far but it's too late to stop now. 

“What did you mean?” the Obergruppenführer asks, somewhat coldly, and finally lets go of his wrist.

Automatically Joe adopts a more upright pose and a more military tone.

“I wanted to express my intent to do whatever you tell me to do, to carry out every order without question.”

Smith raises an eyebrow but he doesn't seem amused. “So if I told you to lick my boots, you would do it?”

“I would, Obergruppenführer.”

“All right then,” Smith says. “Prove it.”

For a moment Joe doubts his ears, he would not have thought they would get there so fast. “Sorry, sir.”

“Lick my boots, Joe.”

There is no sign in Smith's expression to indicate that he isn't serious and Joe feels as if after holding his breath for several minutes he's finally sucking in a lungful of air. His head is spinning. He's feeling wonderful, alive, burning with anticipation. He falls to his knees, as gracefully as he can, and carefully puts the cigarette butt in his trouser pocket, then wipes the hand clean against the fabric. It hurts a little but Joe doesn't mind, he's to preoccupied with what is to come.

He leans down, crouches over Smith's feet. The boots are well cared for. Joe can see they're regularly polished, probably by some faithful Sturmmann or Rottenführer, someone very low in the hierarchy (someone who is of course still way above a random civilian like him). It's been a couple of days though since they were cleaned, and the leather has gathered a thin layer of dust. Joe is thankful they're not really as muddy as he imagined them. He lowers his head and presses his lips to the tip of one of the boots in an open mouthed kiss that leaves a wet spot on the leather. It shines where his spit has wiped away the dust. Joe examines the effect for a moment before Smith tells him to go on with it.

He sticks out his tongue and licks a wide stripe from tip to heel. The taste is not so bad really, dust and leather and shoe polish, but there's more to this than just the flavour. To serve Smith like this, by tending to his shoes in the most intimate and most humiliating way, fills him with an odd satisfaction, almost a sense of pride. Joe has been half-hard for a while, at the very least since Smith called him “boy”, but now he allows himself to give in to his feelings, the arousal coursing through him, the tension in his lower belly, the excited twitch of his cock. Every swipe of his tongue over Smith's boot makes him grow harder, his breathing becomes heavy. Soon the leather is gleaming with his spit, black and shining and meticulously clean.

“That's enough.” The Obergruppenführer's voice sounds even more gravelly than usual, deep and rough, like a caress on Joe's heated skin. He shivers as he straightens himself. He stays on his knees though, glancing up through his lashes. He can only guess what he must look like – flushed, tousled, with reddened lips and feverish eyes, whorish. 

Smith's expression is still stony but he reaches out and runs his thumb over Joe's plush bottom lip which prompts him to open his mouth further, invite the finger inside the wet heat. He flicks his tongue against it, offering, asking, and Smith allows him to suck it into his mouth, to show him how Joe would worship his cock if he was allowed the privilege.

“So that's how you intend to serve the Reich?” Smith asks.

It's impossible to know what he implies, if he's serious or sarcastic, angry or pleased. Joe decides to play it safe and stick to the script.

“I will serve however you see fit,” he says.

“Get up.” 

It's a command that allows no objection. Joe stumbles to his feet as fast as he can. Smith grabs his upper arm and shoves him against the edge of the desk. Hitler stares at him from his portrait, as if watching their every move. What he would think, if he could see them like this, Joe thinks. There are rumours about his preferences too. Wasn't Röhm a good friend of him after all? 

The next order interrupts his thoughts. 

“Pull down your pants,” the Obergruppenführer demands, and Joe obeys at once. His fingers are trembling as he fumbles with the buttons. He can't believe this is really happening, not even when he feels Smith's hand in the small of his back, bending him over. His upper body comes to rest against the desktop, his cock is bobbing in the air, the tip already leaking, but Smith doesn't pay it any attention. 

“So this is what you want, Joe?” he asks as if they had simply reached another point to tick off on a list of standard procedures. 

It could still be a trap, Joe thinks, so far Smith's done nothing to incriminate himself, but somehow he can't bring himself to care. 

“Yes, it is, Obergruppenführer.”

The hand disappears from his back, and for a moment there is nothing but cold air on his exposed skin. Smith is behind him, Joe can't see what he's doing, he can only listen and guess. There's the clinking of metal. Hand-cuffs maybe? Another shiver runs down Joe's spine while he waits for Smith to twist his arms backwards and click the cuffs shut around his wrists but instead there's only the rustle of fabric to be heard. Then he can sense movement, as Smith is stepping closer, leaning over him. Something warm and wet is landing on his skin, just above the ass crack. Spit.

Joe holds his breath when Smith gathers it up and spreads his cheeks to rub the fluid over his hole. He spits again, straight onto his opening this time. Joe jerks a little, mostly with surprise, but there's no time to dwell on the strangeness of his all, Smith is pushing two fingers inside him in a practised move. It's clearly not the first time he's doing this, and he clearly doesn't care much about procedure, because he doesn't waste his time on much preparations. He makes sure, Joe is satisfyingly loose, then withdraws his fingers and wipes them clean in Joe's hair.  
“I should have know you're a slut from the moment you entered my office,” the Obergruppenführer growls before he spits a third and last time, apparently into his own hand. Joe hears the rustle of clothes, the slick wet sound as he smears it over his cock, and the subsequent low groan of pleasure that makes his own cock twitch. He must be dripping on the floor by now, making a mess out of the carpet after all. Maybe Obergruppenführer Smith will make him clean it up afterwards, he thinks, but then Smith's cock is brushing against Joe's hole and for a moment he can think nothing at all.

The tip of Smith's cock is wide and blunt and stretching him open faster, rougher than Joe is used to. He gasps for air while he tries to keep quiet, will his body to relax around the intrusion. His eyes are watering again. It burns. He wishes he could at least see the Obergruppenführer's face, how the pleasure contorts his features, how he struggles to stay in control. There are other things he would wish for, a passionate, biting kiss, a possessive hand cupping his cheek, a promise he'll be his and his alone, praise for what a good, what a pretty boy he is, but Joe knows these are the things you rarely get from men like John Smith. He is lucky to have gotten as far as he has, Smith's hands on his hips and his cock in his ass.

The Obergruppenführer fucks him with the angry determination Joe has come to expect from a soldier. His thrusts are almost brutal and Joe has to brace himself against the desk to keep his balance. It is obvious this is more punishment than reward, Smith doesn't care if he's getting the angle right, it's up to Joe to shift just so the Obergruppenführer's cock brushes against the right spot. He's got a bit of practise in that regard, so it's not much of a problem. On the contrary, it feels great, so great Joe has to bite into his fist to smother the noises he's making, all the little whines and moans and whimpers. 

Smith is mostly quiet, apart from a low groan here and there, and Joe admires that not even now his self-control seems to be slipping. He is pushing into him with the precision and tirelessness of a clockwork, again and again, until Joe is breathless and lightheaded and at the brink of orgasm without any stimulation to his cock that's bouncing helplessly in the empty air with every snap of Smith's hips.

He's so close, he's sure all it would take would be one, two, maybe three strokes. He would love to take himself in hand but his position prevents such accommodation, and he's convinced Smith has planned on that, because when Joe tries to move backwards a little, he doesn't let him, so he has to resort to pleading.

“Sir,” he gasps between a couple of vicious thrusts, “Sir, I need– please, I–”

“What is it, Joe?” the Obergruppenführer asks, mockingly. “What is it that you need?”

“Would you touch me, sir, please?” He's almost sobbing, he just can't bear it anymore.

“But, Joe, Joe” – the cruelty is plain in the feigned amusement – “Isn't it _you_ who is serving me here, not the other way around? Wasn't that what you offered?”

“Yes, Obergruppenführer, but–”

Smith gives a humourless little chuckle but then he indeed reaches around and wraps his fingers around Joe's cock and just as he suspected it only takes a few pulls of Smith's hand and Joe is coming. He almost passes out from the sensation, he only registers vaguely that Smith reaches his climax shortly after him, but at that moment he's just too far gone to appreciate the sensation. 

Naturally the Obergruppenführer does make him clean up his mess afterwards, just as Joe suspected – he has Joe suck his own come out of the carpet but as a reward he also allows him to lick his cock clean before he tucks it away in his uniform trousers, and Joe appreciates that. He appreciates it so much, Smith has to click his tongue in amused disapproval to make him stop. 

“Clean yourself up,” he says, then turns his attention to straightening his own clothes and sleeking back his hair. Soon, as if by magic, Smith looks every bit as meticulously dressed and unruffled as before he bent Joe over his desk and fucked him senseless.

Joe has a bit more difficulties in making himself representable again, he feels sticky and sweaty all over, his clothes are crumpled, his hair is a mess and his lips are swollen from the bite of his own teeth. But then people usually only see what they want to see and it's not as if he's being held to the same standards of neatness as a soldier. He's just a scruffy boy, working odd jobs and doing a bit of espionage for the SS on the side.

He still wants to earn Smith's approval though. He wants to do this again. He wants Smith to think about him when he's gone. Maybe even think of him a little when he goes home to his wife and has her over the kitchen sink.

Again Obergruppenführer Smith jolts him out of his daydreams. 

“I do expect you to fulfil every task I assign you with the same sense of duty,” he says and Joe comprehends that he is finally dismissed but also that there might be a chance for a repetition, if he behaves himself. (Hope dies last, doesn't it?)

“I hope I won't disappoint you,” Joe says and forces himself to stand to attention. “Heil Hitler.”

“Heil Hitler,” the Obergruppenführer responds, much more casually and with a slightly amused undertone, while Joe turns on this heel in his best Hitler Youth impression and marches off, past a fairly bewildered looking Sturmbannführer Klemm to the elevators and finally out of the SS headquarters into a dazzlingly beautiful day.

It's not all that bad under Hitler, Joe thinks while he walks down 1st Avenue towards 42nd Street, whistling the Horst-Wessel-Lied. Actually, not that bad at all.

~


End file.
